I put all my strength into my next forehand. The ball torpedoed over the net, not even bothering to bounce within the court. Nope, that sucker was headed for the fences. If this was baseball, it’d be time to break out the peanuts and Cracker Jack.
Too bad this wasn’t baseball.
A figure in the distance went down, knees to the court. A crowd of students suddenly appeared, gasping and rushing over.
“You hit him!” someone shrieked.
My breath lodged in my throat. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I jogged over, terrified to breathe until I knew my accidental victim was okay.
Caleb directed a dirty scowl at me. “You really are the worst, Maxwell.”
I angled to see the fallen student. “I’m so sorry!”
“Oh, Maisie.” Nia mumbled, now beside me.
“I’m okay,” the guy on the ground said, attempting to stand despite the crowd. His head emerged, sun-bleached brown hair unkempt and curling over a tanned forehead. That perfectly shaggy hair some guys could get away with. He wasn’t a returning student. The face turning toward me could easily belong on a clothing website, the kind with ninety-dollar T-shirts with holes in them for a distressed look. Basically, he was very attractive.
A swath of blood streaked across that very attractive face.
That part was definitely my fault.
Sorry floated across my tongue, but my lips couldn’t form the word under the pressure of so many glaring classmates. Any hope of being an admired senior this year shriveled and burned like a tissue set aflame.
He accepted a clean towel and pressed it to his nose. “I expected I might not be welcome here, but your forehand really confirmed it.”
“Way to go, Maxwell,” Caleb said with a sneer. “You just nailed Shane Wagner in the face.”
Oh. Wait, what? “You’re … you’re—”
“Shane Wagner,” the bloody-faced model boy said through the towel.
Shane Wagner. The Shane Wagner. I just nailed the face of the number one-seeded player in junior boys’ tennis.Read More